


We are a Shining Example of All that is Pristine in the World

by TehChou



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles has a filthy filthy imagination, Multi, Rich bastards, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a young, impressionable age, Emma Frost meets Charles Xavier and introduces him to her dear friend Mr. Shaw. This is rambling tale of how they fit in the modern world and how they fit the modern world to them.</p><p>Also sexy shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are a Shining Example of All that is Pristine in the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zombieboyband](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieboyband/gifts).



> LOL I'M FASHIONABLY LATE, BUT HERE IT IS <3333333 Thanks to ZBB who let me write Emma Emma Emma ILU Emma
> 
> with thanks as ever to Introductory for the beta.

There is to be found, on any given day, at any party with a list of guests that is studiously particular, a man and a girl sitting at the refreshments and flirting. This day is no different and the subjects today are one Charles Xavier, with brown hair cut in the long style of the day, (that is, January 1st of 2012, New York, but miles away from that garish ball) and dressed like a man twice his age in argyle and tweed accompanied by an ordinary, if superficially pretty woman named Amy (though she has not told him that, yet).

“Darling,” Charles says, leaning in close and curling a lock of hair around his finger. “You have the loveliest mutated MCL1 gene I have ever seen.” He smiles, eyes twinkling, inviting her in on the joke. Her smile is small, clumsy in its inelegance, but there’s a certain charm there despite the inattention to detail.

“Mutated,” she asks, charmed despite herself. There’s an incredulous air about her, tempered still with amusement. She smooths a hand over her mused locks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been hit on by being compared to mutation before,” she says. Charles’ smile grows, sparkling at the edges like fine champagne bubbling up the sides of a flute.

“Can I buy you a drink?” His offer is guileless. She falls.

“A glass of Glenfarclas for the lady,” Emma cuts in, gliding next to Charles, because sometimes he needs to be rescued from embarrassing mistakes. She lays a delicate hand on his shoulder and smiles for the tender. “And a flute of Arbane for myself. Charles, I believe, doesn’t need anything else, don’t you agree, sugar?” She sways to the side to get a better view of the girl. She blinks a little owlishly and her lips tilt up hesitantly. Charles sighs, long-suffering.

“Ms. Frost,” he says, dry, but they both know it’s only for show. “Amy, this is Emma.” Heterochromia girl’s eyes grow like colorful, watery saucers.

“I don’t think I-” she starts, but Emma reaches over to pat her on the hand and she falls silent. Remember, if you will, that she never told him her name. It just figures that she’d be the type to attune to such details.

“Don’t worry, sweety. Our Charles has that effect on people, don’t you darling?” Charles rolls his eyes and takes the glass of brandy from the hand of the tender as he moves to set it before the girl. He downs it in one swallow and Emma wrinkles her nose.

“Really, Charles. That’s not meant to be downed like a dog at a bowl,” she sniffs and takes her own glass. She hooks her arm around Charles’ and leads him away, which Charles follows with one last mournful look at Amy, dear Amy, who is left staring into space at the rows of half-empty bottles over the bar, sparkling in the over-bright light of the hall. Aren’t they pretty?

“Well, that was entirely unhelpful,” Charles informers her when they’re ensconced in the relative privacy of the crowd. “And not to mention rude.” Emma takes a sip of her drink to hide the unattractive smirk on her face, turns away when she brings her glass down to set it on a passing waiter’s tray. When she looks back her face is smooth as glass.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, trying for innocent and subtly missing her mark. Subtlety, of course, screams to Charles.

“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs at his glass. It sparkles dutifully back, excited by the fake candelabra swaying gently above their heads.

“Well, well, what pretty picture is this,” the voice that joins their duet is low and dripping with secret amusement. Charles makes a moue of distaste and Emma gives him her equivalent of an eye roll; an excessively bland look. Charles raises his glass at the figure who comes up behind them.

“Here to make us work, Sebastian,” he asks, sadly. Emma’s face transforms into an affected pout.

“Don’t you trust us, love,” she chimes in. Charles flicks his gaze over his shoulder, turns his head. Sebastian looms behind him, mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts that snatch at Charles’ greedy mental fingers until he’s forced to pull back with a sigh, mirrored by Emma who was attempting the same. His suit is grey today, cut well with an intricately patterned tie in burgundy that rests against a silk shirt a hair lighter then the suit. He smirks and slides a hand around Charles’ neck, shaking lightly.

“My little hedonists, where you be without me?”

Emma shrugs her thin, graceful shoulders.

“On a beach, sipping vodka and enjoying the sun.”

“Teaching kids how to hustle little old ladies out of their trust funds,” Charles replies sulkily. They both give him mildly odd looks. Charles frowns. “What, I like working with children.” Sebastian strokes a hand over his hair.

“Of course you do,” he allows, then angles his body; a subtle change of demeanour, but they both sit a little straighter for it. “It’s a new year, my little princelets and change is on the horizon,” he begins. “This darkness is weeding out the meek, culling the herd and it, _we_ will eat them whole and spit out their bones for those left behind. But how can we do that if we’re lazing the day away, hmm? We should begin as we mean to continue.” It was a variation on Sebastian’s favorite speech; impressive to the boy of fifteen who’d stared, bleeding from his nose where his brother had snapped the delicate bones like candy sticks, but uninspired to the one of twenty-three who was in love with himself and his place in the world.

Oblivious to Charles’ disinterest, or at least equally as disinterested, Sebastian continues after a tiny pause to gather a breath.

“Now, upstairs with you both, we have things to discuss,” and he turns and swans away.

Emma and Charles share a look from behind his back.

_Melodramatic._

\---------

“I don’t see why aren’t just bribing it to close its doors. I mean, really, what’s another empty shop sitting on a corner? Is actually putting something there really the most strategic idea?” Charles puttered in the mini-kitchen, a tea kettle and a hot plate sunk in the marble designed and utilized just for him. Charles really was utterly useless without his cuppa, especially at one in the morning drunk and denied. The tinkle of liquid hitting China accompanies his little speech, ringing harmony with his voice. He collapses on the sofa next to Emma, the buttery leather giving freely to his weight, manages not to spill his drink, but only just. Emma snorts elegantly and settles him closer to her.

“Charles, be a dear and drink your tea. It’ll keep that pretty mouth of yours occupied while us grown-ups have a talk.”

Seastian breaks into an obnoxious laugh, loud and infectious. Charles huffs a sigh and takes a sip, studiously ignoring the trace of her fingertip over his shoulder blade.

“Now kids, don’t bicker on account of me.”

He’s regal in his throne of suede and oak, cradling him just so, molding and caressing. He taps a bejeweled finger in a rhythm against the wood. Man-rings are trendy these days.

It was here in this room that lives were made and broken. It was there, in that corner, that a man had bled all over the carpet and forced them to tear it all up and install a new one all over, again.

Mostly it was in this room that they played at being God and waited for the world to catch up.

Charles was made of old money and his companions Nouveau. Where he gathered prestige, they held power. Sebastian snatched it from the hands of lesser men like collecting berries in a garden; trinkets that grew in his basket, grew and grew until his arms weighed heavy with it and his hands ran with juice thick as blood.

Sebsatian, of course, never bowed under the weight, under the implications. He held the strength of suns inside him, his years (unknown) wrapping around him and flowing from him with an iron core; an idle thought, to be sure, one they’d made on a day where they lazed about dreaming together; of the future, the past, the fantastical and the real and everything inbetween.

“What would you do,” Emma purred speculatively from where she perched, relaxed in a delicate sprawl on the plush couch; a position that she somehow managed to look dainty. “If we bought ourselves a rocket and launched you into the sun?”

“Oh,” Charles agreed eagerly, flushed and grinning. “Yes, would you absorb it? Or would it burn you out, do you think?”

Sebastian had grinned and turned to them, and the memory sizzled in Charles’ mind, his answer lost in the blaze of the past, flaring and melting into all the other thoughts and whimsy, to the haze of blood on skin and tears and misery the rest of history encompasses.

None of that ugly stuff has been his, though, not for a long, long time.

That’s what Sebastian promised for them, for him and their Diamond Princess. An end to helplessness, to being condemned to watch from the sidelines as others take the prize, a chance at destiny and greatness.

And if Charles learned to break a few bones along the way, ruin a few futures, well, he was only giving as good as he’d gotten, was he not?

The meeting, the one where they were quibbling over the entirely trivial matter of a self-employed fellow’s lively hood, is uninteresting and as uninspired as they always are; the chess pieces are bigger but it’s never really any fun when you’re playing against yourself. Oh, sure, some of the bigger corps. put up something of a fight, but really there’s only so much one can do against two mind readers and a man with all the force of a nuclear bomb behind his words. (Their ‘minions’, as Emma affectionately dubbed them, are nothing to scoff at, either, but honestly Azazel’s a brute and Janos is just too quiet. They’re kind of _boring_ , even when they’re fucking each other in the comfort of their own minds. Maybe he just hasn’t paid enough attention to them. He’ll look into it later. Maybe. If he remembers and doesn’t get drunk between now and the next time he sees them.)

The entire time they spend talking, hashing and rehashing old plays and new alike, Charles is left thrumming beneath his skin. Emma’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, soft and icy cold. Sebastian keeps shifting his legs as he speaks, crossing and letting his expensive loafers light upon the plush carpet (it’s a luke-warm yellow, now, with little paisley patterns woven through it. It kind of reminds him of piss and he idly contemplates finding someone else to impale over top it. Maybe that uppity Lehnsherr boy with the distracting teeth and the stubbornly tenacious independent metal-working shop. Maybe the impaling won’t even involve vital bodily fluids. Maybe.) springing up around the Italian leather like fluffy thistles. There’s an altogether too prominent bulge outlined in the nook of his crotch.

It’s no real bet that they’ll tumble into bed soon after that. Charles has never bothered to reign in his thoughts with Sebastian and Emma, leaking out like a faulty gas line and getting his thoughts tangled in everything he can reach.

It makes Emma delighted, reaching back, though she’d never let it show; Sebastian just gets angry and Charles would care, he really would, but Sebastian takes it out so deliciously on his body when he does that Charles just really can’t help himself.

Emma is particular in bed, loving of precision and deliberate gestures both subtle and overt. Her nails are manicured flat, curling inward to cup a nipple, scraping against sensitive flesh. Charles shudders beneath her touch, watches with ravenous eyes when it’s Sebastian she torments. Sebastian likes it when she rides him, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as he buries himself inside her. Charles will stretch over their writhing bodies and reach out until Emma’s immaculate hair curls around his questing fingers. It shimmers in the light, rainbow colors trapped in the strands as she bucks up and down. If Charles tugs, she’ll give her head a toss, like an indignant stallion and it will wisp away from him, but if he lets it stay where it lies, like cupping a butterfly in his palms, she’ll tolerate it. She’ll watch him out of the corner of her eyes as Sebastian trails his hands up her back, urging her on and on and on until she shakes with her pleasure and he tumbles her from his lap to snatch Charles from his perch and split him open to claim him, claim them both.

Sometimes, when Charles is very lucky, she’ll slide her lips around the plump head of his cock, lips ringed in red wrapped around flushed pink. Her mouth will be very wet and very soft and Sebastian will come up behind him and rest a hand against his tense arse, palming and cupping and telling him how precious his arse is and urging his rhythm until he’s moving exactly how Sebastian wants him to. He’ll kiss his neck and suck marks and bite and brand him with his teeth and Charles will come like it’s being ripped from him, bursting with every nibble like an exploding balloon.

Very often Emma will brace herself over Sebastian’s form, her hair brushing his chest as Charles thrusts into her while he rides Sebastian to orgasm. Her breasts will heave and bounce with every twitch of his hips and sometimes, sometimes Sebastian will leak and Charles will see a glimpse of them. They’re soft and round, nipples peaked and pink. Sebastian will suck them and Charles will moan because he can feel it and Emma can feel herself thrusting into her own body and it just roils inside them in an endless loop. Sebastian will deign to open his mind, unfolding around them and pulling them both in and down, rushing to their release like slamming into a brick wall at a thousand miles per hour.

 _Come back to us, Sugar,_ a shiny voice hums in his mind, curling around his thoughts and gently tugging him back to the surface. It comes with a pleased current of arousal thrumming beneath. There is a sharp and brittle thing at the periphery of his thoughts, but that’s OK too, because the arousal practically roars through that one, jabbing little dots into his mind, incessant and uncannily good.

Charles sighs and opens his eyes and accepts his day dreams for what they were.

“Really, Sebastian, you’re the one who threw your lot in with a couple of telepaths. Were you expecting us not to know your mind?”

“We have more important matters to attend to,” Sebastian replies and to anyone else it would seem merely a mild rebuke, but Charles can see the tension that wraps itself around his fingers until he’s digging into the wood of his throne. This is Charles’ favorite scenario. He smirks, heavy lidded and reaches over, wraps Emma’s hand in his own and brings it to his lips, sucking a delicate digit in past his lips. She turns to him, watching him and he turns away from Sebastian to look into her eyes.

“Really? I didn’t know there was anything more important in the whole world,” he replies, her finger sliding from his mouth with a little pop. There’s something warm and unacknowledged crinkling around her eyes.

 _You’re getting wrinkles,_ he tells her.

 _Oh shut up, you little tart,_ she replies and slides the straps of her dress down with her free hand.

“I think he makes a compelling argument, Sebastian,” she says aloud.

“All work and no play makes you a shriveled hag,” he agrees, technically with himself as his eyes glitter. They both glance at Sebastian as one and his eyes narrow to slits.

“You two will be the end of me,” he says, and slides to his feet.


End file.
